


Promise It Won't Last Long

by verucasalt123



Category: One Direction (Band), Supernatural
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Career Change, Community: intoabar, Crossover, Demon Deals, Emotions, Gen, Nostalgia, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn’s feeling apprehensive about the future. Crowley’s feeling nostalgic for the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise It Won't Last Long

Here in Bradford, it was, as usual for this time of year, cold and gray. Not that Zayn was bothered; he was used to the weather. And the opportunity to pull up his collar and push down his hat was welcome. Getting around in public was easier now that he wasn’t constantly in the company of four other paparazzi-magnets, and infinitely less complicated while he was visiting his family than while he was in Los Angeles. Even his north London place afforded him more privacy than he could manage in California. Being able to just walk into a pub undisturbed and sit at the bar for a pint and a couple of shots was a luxury he couldn’t have imagined a year ago.

Staying here for the week with his parents and sisters was nice; nothing was rushed, he could stay a day or two longer than he planned if he felt like it and it wouldn’t get splashed onto the headlines. It was what he wanted. Just a normal life out of the spotlight, no one carefully dissecting his every word, his every move, his every interaction, for their own interpretation. 

Well. It _was_ what he wanted. But Zayn was getting restless now. 

Grabbing the last seat at the end of the almost-empty bar in the dark and mostly quiet pub, Zayn ordered a whisky and a bitter, then went back to his racing thoughts. He’d taken his holiday from the public eye (at great cost, for better or worse) and he’d loved it. But he knew - had probably _always_ known - that he wanted to do his own music. He had so much of it in his head, or scribbled down on A4 paper, or the back of a takeout menu. 

It was a simultaneously exciting and terrifying prospect. Zayn couldn’t count how many times he’d been told, not just by fans or people sucking up at parties, but by professionals in the business, that he was by far the most talented vocalist in the band. It hadn’t started out that way, but a couple of years spending almost all of his time in front of a microphone had helped him learn and grow, to play to his strengths and to improve his already broad vocal range. So maybe he’d hated being handed a song and told to sing it in a certain way, but at least the experience had honed his skills. 

So caught up in his own thoughts, Zayn hadn’t noticed the man sat two seats down from him until he heard a clear South London accent order a scotch whisky. The man had asked for Balvenie, taken a sip, then turned to Zayn and said, “Guess you can’t expect to walk in and get a Craig in _Bradford_ ”, in a tone that practically dripped condescension. Zayn figured Craig was a whisky more posh than Balvenie, and that this bloke was a right git who thought he was slumming in Bradford.

As if he felt Zayn’s reaction, he quickly followed with, “No offense, mate. I’m not insulting your hometown, I rather like it here.”

Up to this point, Zayn hadn’t said a word, and he was certain he’d never met this bloody tosser before (well, as certain as he could ever be about whether or not he’d met anyone over the past few years), so he had no idea why the guy assumed he was _from_ here. So he just nodded and looked back down into his pint glass. He wasn’t interested in idle small talk with a stranger. 

Or maybe...well, maybe he was. Hell, when was the last time he’d been able to just have a spontaneous casual conversation in a pub? So Zayn looked back over at the man to the left of him and said, “No worries”, while he tried to inconspicuously appraise the guy. Older, but not old. The look of some kind of performer, maybe in a band or an avid follower of that long past punk scene that ruled all of England before Zayn was even born. Attractive. Fit, obvious even in his smart suit that almost looked bespoke. Before he knew it, he found himself holding out his hand and offering a simple introduction with a genuine smile. 

“Zayn.”

“Crowley. Nice to meet you, lad”, Crowley replied, but of course he already knew who this kid was. His emotions were so strong they might as well be written in the tattoos that spread out from under his shirtsleeves and onto his wrists. Nervous, excited, caught between what he’d left behind and what might lay ahead, between regretful and optimistic. 

Yes, Crowley knew who Zayn was, and what he was going through, trying to build his self-confidence higher than his self-doubt. The boy needn’t worry, he was going to be just fine on his own - he was going to be smashing. But Zayn didn’t know that yet. It had only been a few months and he'd already made some mistakes in judgment.

And Crowley was feeling nostalgic. He wasn’t wholly unsatisfied with his current position, but there was something beautiful in the simplicity of deal-making. 

“Fag?”, Crowley asked casually, and received the astonished look he expected when he produced a pack of smokes from the inside pocket of his jacket. 

Zayn let out an amused sound. “Where’ve you been? You can’t smoke in here.”

Before all of the words left his mouth, he felt a strange sensation and looked around to see everything but the two of them frozen still. When he looked back up at his new acquaintance, the man blinked and his eyes flashed red before going back to their original brown. Zayn flinched and reflexively whispered, “ _Sheitan_ ”, recoiling and catching himself before he fell off his stool. 

“Now, Zayn, don’t get superstitious on me”, Crowley replied with a smirk, handing over a lit cigarette which Zayn accepted with a trembling hand. 

He’d never been so terrified in his life, but he couldn’t bring himself to move and he didn’t know what he was supposed to say, so he just took a hard drag from the smoke and tried to be still. 

“No reason to be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you. Just wondering if you might accept my help with achieving the solo career of which you’re so clearly deserving.”

“I don’t _need_ help from...whatever you are”, Zayn hissed. “I’ll be just fine on my own.”

Crowley smiled, which was probably supposed to look assuring but just came across as predatory. “You’re sure of that, are you? Completely sure? You didn’t make a mistake leaving the sure thing you had and going off on your own? I can make it happen. I can make it better than you ever thought it could be. Just a small trade-off. But it’s a guarantee, iron-clad. I always keep my promises; I don’t tell lies and I never fail to deliver. Less than a year and you’ll be exceeding all expectations - even yours.”

There was no way Zayn could keep from considering it. Was he really all that sure? Could he be on top of the music world as a solo artist, making his own music his own way? Sometimes he thought he definitely could, but there were days when his confidence waned. The nightmare scenario of releasing his own album and having it ripped to shreds by critics and by his former friends and bandmates always crept up on him eventually. Zayn didn’t think he could live through that. Still…

“And how’s that supposed to work? How do I know you’re not just a _Whisperer_?”, he asked, taking another long pull from his cigarette and trying to find his courage. 

“It’s a simple transaction”, Crowley replied, “You get what you want, I get what I want. Let me explain”, he said with a grin. 

 

Eight months later, as Zayn got ready to take the stage for the first date of his world tour in support of the critically acclaimed and record-smashing album he’d released earlier in the year, he could still feel the taste of Crowley’s lips on his as they sealed the deal. 

Ten years would put him in his early thirties - lots of people in his profession didn’t get that long. Zayn was going to savor every second of the time he had. He wouldn’t be getting married or raising kids, not when he knew he’d already be devastating his family going out at that age; no way would he subject a wife and children to it as well. He tried not to think of what would come after his time was up. There was no point in dwelling on an inevitable unknown. 

Crowley stood at the back of the crowd, thinking how fortunate it was that he’d made that little foray into revisiting his days at the crossroads. Everything he saw was of Zayn’s own doing. The kid had been right, he _didn’t_ need help. But a deal was a deal - he’d be coming back himself to collect on this one.


End file.
